A Kind of Homesickness
by Sketchling
Summary: Maya is safe. Safe. /Safe./ You run the phrase in slow circles in your head like a mantra, and shift in your bed, closing your eyes. However, when darkness swallows you, all you envision is that horrid moment when Maya followed De Killer out those shiny double doors.


_**A Kind of Homesickness**_

You feel sick.

Although you're not entirely sure that 'sick' defines the condition you're in right now.

You're not technically physically ill; but you have enough bags under your eyes to make it look like you're wearing eye shadow (an idea you're not comfortable with at all) and you feel sore all over.

Maya's safe, you remind yourself, the cause of your 'illness' not going unmentioned.

Maya is safe. Safe.

_Safe_.

You run the phrase in slow circles in your head like a mantra, and shift in your bed, closing your eyes. However, when darkness swallows you, all you envision is that horrid moment when Maya followed De Killer out those shiny double doors. You jolt yourself awake again, wiping your clammy hands on the sheets of your bed. She's safe, you tell yourself for the one-thousandth time. She's in Kurain. Pearl is with her. They're both safe and sound.

You close your eyes again, but memories flood you once more; memories of a staticky voice emitting from a transceiver, of a popular man with scars on his face, and of breathlessly bursting into a mansion, only to run into dead ends...

You shake yourself awake again and drag yourself out of bed, deciding you've had enough of this bullshit.

You stumble across your bedroom in the dark, groping around your desk for your cell phone.

Right as you're about to grab it and dial her number, Maya's name lights up the screen and your phone vibrates across the wooden surface of the desk. You snatch it up right away, flipping it open with shaky hands and pressing it to your ear. "H-hello?"

"Hi, Nick," she answers nervously on the other end. "I'm sorry for calling so late, I just...um..."

Maya trails off into a fumbling silence, and you give her a moment to gather her thoughts.

"With everything that happened," she finally manages, "I...I don't want to be alone. And I know I'm not alone in Kurain; I have Pearly, after all! But...well, long story short, I'm outside your apartment."

And she was. She'd been standing outside your apartment door with a backpack (presumably stuffed with clothes) slung over her shoulder and a sheepish grin on her face.

Of course, you'd wasted no time in letting her in. Maya was dripping wet, her long, black hair plastered to her head. It was pouring out, after all; you can't even begin to imagine what compelled her to come all the way here this late at night in the pouring rain. Actually, you can, because it's the same sinking feeling that's been keeping you awake.

You quickly showed her to your bathroom, where she could take a warm shower and change into some different clothes. Now you're sitting at the small couch in your living room, heat radiating into your palms from the mug of coffee you're gripping. You've been trying to break your addiction to the caffeinated liquid, but fuck, there's no way you're getting any sleep tonight anyways.

You take a long sip of your coffee, staring blankly at the dull, beige-colored wall of the room. There's a poster tacked to the center of it, just above your small television. Of course, it features the Steel Samurai; something Maya had insisted on you putting up. Now, however, you only want to burn it.

There's a screechy creak as your bathroom door opens, and you glance over to see Maya shuffling out in an oversized Blue Badger shirt and purple plaid pajama pants. It's weird seeing her without her robes, or the beads in her hair. She smiles at you nervously and sits next to you, the cushions barely sinking in from her smaller figure. She's so delicate and fragile, you think. But at the same time, you know she isn't. Maya is much stronger than you could ever hope to be.

"I'm sorry," the psychic says, fixated on scraping off some invisible stain off the hem of her shirt with her nail.

"Don't be," you say. "I was actually just about to call when you called me."

She blinks twice in quiet surprise before a silence envelopes the room, save for the sound of coffee sliding down your throat.

She's only about a foot away from you right now, but you want to touch her. You want to hold her and run your fingers through her hair and take in her vanilla scent and never let go, because you'll be damned if you lose her again.

You can tell that the feeling is mutual, from the way Maya keeps darting glances at you and from the way she shifts in her spot. And then, when you put your empty cup on the small coffee table, she sees her window and takes it.

Before you have time to think, a warm, sweet scent is washing over you and there are two boney arms wrapped around your neck. You can feel her hot, shaky breath hitting your collarbone as she buries her face in the crook of your neck.

Your body moves of its own accord, and you wrap your arms tightly around her small waist and pull her into your lap, your hands rubbing slow circles into her back. You can feel her spine through her shirt, and each individual vertebrae. She's lost a lot of weight from being starved by that asshole.

"I missed you. I missed you so, so, so much, Nick," Maya's saying, her voice muffled.

"I-I missed you, too, Maya," you choke out. Shit, is your vision blurring? You feel tears begin to glide down your cheeks and you awkwardly wipe them away, holding the girl in your arms as close as physically possible.

You hold her for what feels like an hour, but in reality, was probably much shorter. The two of you pull away with flushed cheeks and red eyes from crying (you're personally relived to see that you aren't the only one who got a little teary-eyed). Maya's the first to speak, which is another relief, because you don't trust your voice not to crack or waver right now.

She laughs, a little anxiously. "It's no wonder Pearl wants us to get together so badly."

You give a half-hearted smile in agreement, feeling her shift in your lap so that she's leaning back against you, your arms wrapped around her waist. You absently rest your chin on the top of her head, breathing in the scent of warmth, kindness, understanding, caring...everything that Maya is.

"Nick," she says suddenly, her voice smaller than usual. You respond with an inquiring hum, feeling her small hands touch your much larger ones.

Maya wets her lips and swallows, tracing along your knuckles with the tip of a nail. "Um...do you think we could ever...be more than just friends?"

There's a long, pregnant silence, and your brain is having trouble processing exactly what just came out of Maya's mouth. It's like your mind just completely short-circuited.

However, by some miracle, you manage to find your voice and quickly turn her to face you.

"Maya," you say seriously, "do you _want_ to be more than friends?"

She seems shocked and nervous, and quickly looks any place other than into your eyes. "I m-mean," she stutters, "it's really up to y-you. I'd...I'd like to, but if that's not what you want, then that's totally ok!" The look in her eyes tells you it totally wouldn't be okay, but she'd tough it out. "It's better to be friends than nothing at all...right? But, um, if you're not comfortable with that, either, I can handle it. It's no big dea-"

You cut Maya's ramble off, the words that formed on her lips dissolving on yours. You reach up and gently cup her face, kissing her as slowly and softly as possible, trying to write a book about exactly how you feel about her with your mouth.

When you retreat, pulling back to rest your forehead against hers, she's trembling and panting, tightly gripping your hand in hers.

"Maya Fey," you say, proud of the confidence in your voice, "I have feelings for you that I can't even begin to describe."

She bites her lip, a flash of white against rose pink. "Ph-Phoenix Wright," the girl mumbles, her voice shaking, "I love you."

Maya hides her face in your shoulder and you can't help but allow a smile to bloom on your lips as your calloused hands feel her sides, her curves. Your hands linger there for a bit before one reaches up to gently stroke her hair while the other traces unknown patterns and shapes on her pale arm.

After a while, you feel her hands toying timidly with the hem of your old shirt, and you feel her murmur something against your neck.

"W-what was that?" You ask, hyper-aware of her fingertips on the sensitive skin of your stomach. She's not...is she? No, Maya wouldn't. Or would she?

And then, she speaks up, and you swear you can hear that damn trickster smile in her voice, "I brought the first two seasons of Steel Samurai."


End file.
